


It is what it is

by saltzatore



Category: Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: M/M, h/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-09
Updated: 2011-10-24
Packaged: 2017-10-24 10:26:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/262441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltzatore/pseuds/saltzatore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>post 2.22: Everybody is fighting with the consequences of the ritual: Stefan is gone, Damon has a lot of free time on his hands and Alaric is trying to drown his sorrows-- or himself, whichever comes first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Echo

He wakes to the sound of the shower turning off.

The bed beside him is empty, covers pulled to the side, but the sheets are still warm. He turns his head to blink at the clock and realizes it's way before midnight.

A shadow appears at the door and Alaric slips inside, black towel wrapped around his waist, rubbing a second through his wet hair. Damon watches him, catching sight of one of many drops of water running down the broad chest and can't think of a single reason why Alaric would be out of bed, looking for all the world like he is getting ready to leave.

Alaric has that far-away look on his face, the one he wears when he thinks no one's looking. He moves silently into the middle of the room, looking around listlessly, until he spots his jeans on the floor near the window. He drops both towels at the foot of the bed and walks over, bending forward to pick his jeans up.

In the blink of an eye Damon's out of bed and behind him, fitting himself against Alaric's bare back and just barely avoiding an elbow to the head. Even absentminded as he is, the man still has reflexes.

"Leaving so soon?" Damon purrs against a shoulder, catching a drop of water there with his tongue.

Alaric shivers, then relaxes in his hold, turning his head to the side to look at him over his shoulder. "I have to be back tonight, I can't give them a curfew and then not be there to make sure they keep it."

Damon's expected that answer, has heard variations of it before.

"So _you_ are on a curfew now?" He huffs softly, making sure his breath ghosts over the moist skin before him as he continues, "Tell me, Mr. _Gilbert_ , what are the penalties if you—either of you—break it? House arrest? Kitchen duty? Making sure there's enough alcohol for the next slumber party?"

Alaric flinches guiltily and Damon expects him to turn around and punch him for it. Or at least glare at him. But he doesn't, all he does is sag, leaning back against him, as if there's no strength left to fight. It's not a reaction Damon likes, especially since it's pretty much become Alaric's default setting lately.

"Look, I wanna do this, okay? They are just kids and they are lonely and I think it helps them if I'm around…" His tired voice trails off, but Damon hears the words left unspoken as clearly as if Alaric had said them out loud.

 _Jenna would want me to keep an eye on them._

He respects that, both Jeremy and Elena have gone through so much more any human at their age should and if he had any idea how to help them he'd probably do the same. The problem is, there is nothing _to_ do at the moment, Stefan is gone, along with Klaus and Elijah, doing who-knowswhat who-knows-where. They don't have the slightest idea where to look or even what to look for.

They'd been to Alaric's place after the _trio infernale_ had left town, searching the apartment for clues. All they'd found were bloodstains and empty blood packs. He'd warned Elena, he'd told her that searching for Stefan, trying to find him and his new keeper, _will_ add to the body count. It's suicidal and reckless and a very, very bad idea—but she doesn't listen. True to her rather inconvincible, stubborn self, she won't hear any of it. She is determined to get him back and all he can do, for now, is play along and make sure she stays safe.

He promised to look into whatever brutal killing she dug up on the internet or found in the newspapers or got from Forbes, and he agreed that, yes, he will tell her if he finds anything that could be a lead—but he never does. The few hits he suspects to be Klaus' victims and therefore a track, he keeps from her, tells her, again and again, that it's nothing, just another pointless death in the history of mankind. He doesn't know if she believes him, wouldn't count on it, she's always been too smart for her own good. Fact is, she never says anything and as long as she doesn't run off, he's fine with how it is at the moment.

What he's not fine with is the way Alaric is losing himself more and more in grief and exhaustion. He started drinking himself to sleep days after Jenna's funeral and never showed any indication of bouncing back to his former self. More often than not he would pass out on the couch in the boarding house, sleeping through most of the days and drinking the nights away. He never returned to his apartment to live there, except for a few trips to pick up some personal stuff. He'd hit rock bottom when they talked about some of what had gone down while Klaus had taken his body for a joyride and Damon accidentally found out Alaric had no idea Isobel was dead now, gone for good this time. Her death had got lost in the horrors of the ritual; nobody had bothered to tell him about it. Alaric had taken it like he took everything those days, with another glass of Scotch and a lifeless shrug. And then he'd zoned out on him, drink forgotten in his hand.

That was the first night they'd spent together, and try as he might, he can't remember who made the first move. Not that it matters. It's not true love, it's not walking on sunshine all day and having the time of their lives, it's maybe not even love at all. For his part, he enjoys the presence of someone who actually _wants_ to be with him and does not have to be compelled at the end of the day. Someone who trusts him, trusts him despite everything he has ever done to him. He thinks Alaric is probably grateful for someone at his side who won't use his feelings against him or die on him any second.

And, of course, there's the sex. Who would have thought history teachers could be that bendy?

Speaking of it…

"Tell you what," he mumbles against the tense shoulder in front of him, "you screw the curfew, let me do the same to you and everybody gets to have a good night. I promise to get you back so you can have lunch with your little family tomorrow…"

"Damon…" Alaric starts to protest tiredly, but it's half-hearted at best.

Damon knows he's won then, and continues his caresses, running his hands down Alaric's sides, stopping shy above his waist. "I'm waiting…" he whispers seductively against Alaric's spine, starting to nip at the warm skin there, careful not to break it. Not yet.

He never gets an answer, just another tired sigh. But it's enough.

 

ooOOoo

 

Alaric doesn't make the curfew the next night either. Or the nights after that.

Elena comes by a few days later, giving him another case Forbes dug up and apart from the desperate hope literally shining in her eyes, she seems fine. Damon meets her at the door, alone, Alaric sound asleep in his bedroom, for once out of it because of various, extracurricular activities and not a single drop of alcohol.

Elena asks him about Alaric, Damon tells her he's taking a few days off babysitting duty, but he will be fine, eventually. She's worried about him, asks if there is anything she can do to help and he sends her home after she promises to stay out of trouble of any kind. It's not ideal, but it's how they get by these days.

ooOOoo

 

There’s a loud crash close to him, porcelain hits the ground and shatters, pulling him out of a deep sleep. Alaric jumps off the couch before he is even aware that he’s awake, banging his knees painfully into the coffee table in the process.

“What the _hell_?” he yelps, swaying, fighting to keep his balance. His feet are tangled in the covers that have somehow ended up on the floor next to him and he almost ends up on his ass when the room tilts on its axis from a sudden case of vertigo and he can’t really move to compensate for it.

For a too long moment he has no idea where he is, doesn’t recognize the room or the furniture, caught on the threshold between the oblivion of sleep and sudden awareness. He blinks, runs his hand through his hair and forces himself to _focus_ , and slowly, piece by piece, reality starts to make sense again. Green covers, leftover pizza on the coffee table, the couch from hell—the Gilberts' house.

He looks up, toward the kitchen, where a figure is standing in the middle of the room, frozen on the spot, despite Alaric’s earlier shouting. Jeremy is staring at something that has to be next to the freezer but isn’t in Alaric’s line of sight. He looks awfully pale, shocked, almost as if he’s just seen a ghost.

“Jeremy?”

At the sound of his name the boy turns to face him, blinking dazedly. “Huh?”

“You okay?”

Jeremy frowns, as if he has no idea what Alaric is talking about, then his lips pull into a guarded, kind of nervous smile. “Yeah, sure, I just—uhm—I dropped my plate… it slipped…” He shakes his head. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

Alaric senses that he’s missing something, but before he can say anything Jeremy moves out of sight and starts to pick up the broken plate.

Alaric sinks down on the couch, staring off into the distance for a second as he tries to get his bearings and his racing heartbeat back under control.

The evening is a rather vague memory, he’d come ‘home’, waited for the kids to show up, which they didn’t, because Jeremy was working late at the Grill and Elena was over at Bonny’s—Caroline’s?—on some girls' night. He’d had pizza all by himself, fought hard not to feel too pathetic because they apparently didn’t need him, at least not this night, and then… he’d fallen asleep, on the couch, just like that, no alcohol, no TV, just him, being so bored by his own company that he’d nodded off. Great.

He groans and flops back against the couch, throwing an arm over his eyes. This night is officially the new low of his existence...

Not that the days are any better. When he’s not at the boarding house he’s here, doing the normal, the usual things. He goes shopping, he does the laundry, he takes out the trash, he picks up the newspaper in the morning… at a house that’s not his, for a family that doesn’t exist anymore and two kids who are just as lost and helpless as he is. He pretends him being there makes a difference, makes him at least a little useful and helps them to feel not as alone, but deep down he isn’t sure, doesn’t really know anything anymore.

This is what Jenna would have wanted him to do under these circumstances, and it feels right to do it. And so he does, he cleans the dishes, orders pizza for dinner and he’s there. For them, for _her_ —but not for himself.

If it wasn’t for the kids, he’d probably just leave town. Get a new job somewhere else, some big city where the odds of him stumbling over things that go bump in the night are about as high as being the victim of an actual _animal_ attack in Mystic Falls. Somewhere where he could put all this behind him and move on, literally, get a chance at a normal, vampire-free life.

It is a little ironic that the one person who is holding him together these days represents everything he yearns to get away from.

The nights with Damon are… different. First, of course, there is sex, every night, good sex, sex that usually does the trick and knocks him out for a few hours, much to Damon’s never ending amusement. “Fucked you senseless again…” he whispers in Alaric’s ear in the mornings and he never figures out if he’s feeling insulted or grateful about the smug tone in Damon’s voice. Probably both.

But, as much fun as those nights are, there is something else, something more satisfying, more real to him than physical relief. It has taken him a long time to identify it, to put a name… a feeling to it.

It’s _peace_.

For some strange reason that will probably elude him forever, he’s at peace with Damon close to him. It makes no sense, Damon hasn’t changed, he’s every bit the same snarky, extremely frustrating and not to mention incredibly self-centered bastard who has the ability to rile Alaric up like no one he has ever met before. And still… something about the vampire puts his mind at ease and lets him rest, even when they’re going over police reports of the most gruesome kind to track Stefan.

Maybe it’s because he doesn’t have to keep secrets from Damon. Maybe it’s because he doesn’t have to be strong for him, to pretend he’s okay and getting better when he really just wants to hit himself over the head until he forgets about everything. Whatever it is, he doesn’t care, he lets it go, it’s not for him to think about or understand, it’s just there, it’s one of the few things that keeps him, if not exactly _sane,_ then at least stable enough to get him through the days.

His life is strange.

 _“Wake up, mate, I have a message for you to deliver…”_

The voice drawls in his ear, so close, so very real that he jumps and opens his eyes, forces himself to take in his surroundings, to realize that he is _not_ in his apartment, that Klaus is _not_ there, that he’s no longer helpless.

Sometimes, when he’s really tired—or drunk—flashes of what happened rise to the surface of his mind. Images, memories, smells— _pain_ … Klaus’ voice comes back to haunt him, whispering into his ear, words he never actually heard from him but which still frighten him to the point of where he needs to get away, from everything, as far away as possible so that the words won’t catch up with him, won’t be able to hurt him again—

He has no idea how to deal with it, there’s no one to talk to, no support group for ex-meatsuits—Damon’s term—no literature to help him find a way to cope with it. He tries to ignore it, suppress it as best as he can, but the memories—the voice always finds a way back.

He’s never sure what’s real and what’s not, he doesn’t just remember what happened to him, he _relives_ it. The panic of waking up to a stranger looming over him, looking down at him with an indifferent gaze and so much power over him that he can’t even blink if the witch doesn’t allow it.

 _“You’ll do… I guess…”_

How he couldn’t move an inch, how he was screaming in his head, all the time, scared out of his mind, trying to move, to get away, to do something—and the blood, again, the blood they’d forced into him, that had burnt its way through his veins while he just sat there, feeling his hold on himself slip away with every heartbeat until he was starting to fade—

“NO!”

It’s like waking from a bad dream, he bolts upright and stumbles away from the couch, heartbeat racing, breath rushing in and out of his lungs so fast it’s making him dizzy—

This time he goes down, he loses his balance and falls to the floor, barely avoiding smashing his head into the damned table. He lies on the floor, panting, fighting to get some sort of control back, mind spinning, only one thought loud enough to be heard over the rushing in his head.

 _I have to put an end to this. I have to make it_ stop.

 

ooOOoo


	2. Enjoy the silence

It’s early in the evening, around ten, and like every evening in the new era Damon’s having a drink in front of the fireplace. He’s bored. It’s awfully lonely in the boarding house when there’s no one to annoy, no brother brooding for hours about what to wear for school the next day and when exactly did the prospect of not having to endure _that_ drama every evening lose its appeal? Damon huffs and turns around, reaching for the bottle behind him on the bar. Maybe he should go out, get some live food instead of the plastic crap for a change, it’s been a while since he went hunting—

The cell in his back pocket goes off. He grins, fumbling to set his glass down and pull it out at the same time. He flips it open, not even bothering to check the caller ID. “What’s up, Ric, miss me already? I thought tonight was dinner time with your big, happy family?”

He expects that annoyed sigh Alaric has pretty much perfected by now, the one that‘s supposed to say _‘shut up, Damon’_ but usually comes out like _‘shut up and please do_ that _again, Damon’._

“Hellooo?” he drawls in a singsong voice after a moment, shifting to get more comfortable on the couch and raising his glass for another sip.

There’s no answer, but there are sounds now, weird sounds, some sort of rustling, an odd, muffled noise, then a groan, muted. Damon raises his eyebrows at that, his lazy smile turning into an amused grin.

“Are you calling to have phone sex with me? That’s… _kinky_ …” He pauses, listening closer, trying to make out more details, lowering his voice to a purr. “Okay, I’ll bite, what are you wearing tonight, _sweetheart_?”

Another groan, closer to the phone, familiar—and _wrong_.

“Ric?”

It’s then that his ears pick up faint panting, strained gasps for air, but before he can focus on that all hell breaks loose. There are voices, a lot of them. Alaric’s voice is one of them, in the background, yelling at someone.

 _“Get away from my car!”_

His shout is followed by a male voice, close to the phone. “ _Get him!_ ”

People start running, two different sets of footsteps, heading into Alaric’s direction. A struggle breaks out that instantly becomes violent and loud, something solid crashes into metal, glass shatters. From the different grunts and moans Damon can tell that Alaric is getting in a few good punches of his own, but then it sounds as if he is hit by someone—or somet _hing_ that drives the breath from his lungs. Alaric drops to the ground and starts choking and whatever happens next is drowned out by a car engine roaring to life right next to the cell.

Damon strains to hear something over the noise, lips peeling back into an angry snarl when the sound of Alaric shouting out in pain is loud enough to be heard over the racket. Damon’s grip on the phone tightens until he can hear the plastic creak in protest, but all he can do is listen helplessly as the footsteps come back, car doors are opened and slammed shut. A second engine is started and tires squeal as both cars speed off.

And then all there is, is silence, for a too long time the only sounds to be heard are the two cars in the distance—and nothing else.

Damon almost breaks the phone in half, pacing restlessly in front of the fireplace. “What the fucking hell—RIC!”

He’s so focused on not smashing the cell against the nearest wall in frustration he almost misses a low hissing that’s slowly getting closer to the phone. It’s such a weird sound it takes him a moment to realize it’s Alaric’s voice. It sounds as if he is crawling, cursing heavily between gasps.

“ _Shit—shitshit_ shit _—_ “

Some more rustling, then Alaric picks up the phone, his breathless, tight voice suddenly right in Damon’s ear. “ _Who’s there?_ ”

“What the hell happened, are you okay?”

“ _Damon? Why’s… why are you calling me?_ ” Alaric sounds completely out of it, as if he’s taken a hit to the head. Not good. Damon puts the glass down and rushes to the door, fishing for his keys.

“Where are you?”

There’s a long pause. _“I’m—I’m on Main Street… they took my car…”_

Mentally going over the layout of Main Street he thinks he knows exactly where Alaric has to be, there is a part of the road that’s deserted and lonely enough for a setup like that. He should know, he’s used the same area as a hunting ground before.

“Stay where you are, I’m coming to get you…” He jogs over to his car. “Try not to get yourself mugged by a gang of _squirrels_ in the meantime…”

Alaric doesn’t rise to his joke at all, his end of the line stays quiet save for his strained wheezing for breath.

Damon’s on said road about twenty minutes later and it’s not long until he spots a dark shadow on the side of it. Alaric is sitting on the ground, slumped forward, his arms curled around his middle. His head rises slowly when the car approaches and he blinks groggily into the headlights. Damon pulls over once he is close enough and gets out. The scent of blood immediately catches his attention, drawing his eyes to Alaric’s temple where a spectacular bruise is bleeding, drops of blood trickling down his skin, across the side of his face.

“Consider yourself lucky I already had dinner,” Damon says by way of greeting and squats down next to him, grimacing when he gets a closer look at Ric’s face. “On second thought, I really don’t care that much for _road kill_ …”

Alaric has trouble focusing on him, pulling his face into a tired grimace. “Shut up.”

“Where did they get you?”

Alaric tries to get his feet under him to get up, but his movements are stiff and uncoordinated. “My side, I think I broke a rib… or three…”

Damon cocks his head to the side, listening intently for a moment. “Doesn’t sound like they punctured your lung,” he mutters thoughtfully, earning himself a glare.

“No, they didn’t, I know what _that_ feels like,” Alaric all but growls and Damon raises an eyebrow at his tone.

“You’re no fun when you’re hurt, you know that?”

He helps Alaric to his feet, steadying him when the teacher doubles over, sagging against him. “Fuck, that _hurts_ …”

“Did you see any of them?”

Alaric shakes his head slightly, causing himself to almost lose his balance. “Just the girl, she didn’t look familiar—whoa… “ He sways, reaching out blindly and Damon grabs a hold of his jacket, keeping him upright.

“They got you pretty good, mister vampire hunter,” he teases softly, nodding at Alaric’s bloody face, “maybe you should—“

A shot rings out, cutting off his sentence.

Something sharp slams into Damon’s back, causing him to stumble forward. Pain rips through his chest, turning his vision white for a second and he chokes on his breath. He hasn’t recovered from the initial shock when a second shot pierces the night and he is hit again, close to where the first bullet went in. The pain is excruciating, wiping almost all other thought from his mind.

Dimly he can hear Alaric shout his name, sees a blurry shadow reach out for him, but then his legs give out and he crumbles to the ground. He has a moment to curse himself for not paying attention to his surroundings, but then he feels his awareness dim. Everything fades to black…

 

ooOOoo

 

Damon comes to with a gasp.

Every muscle, every instinct starts screaming at him to get up, to _fight_. He growls deep in his throat, tensing, struggling to move, to attack—but he can barely move enough to sit up. His back is on fire, blinding pain coursing through his chest in waves, making it almost impossible to keep breathing. He pants for air and forces his eyes open, scanning his surroundings.

Wherever he is, it’s dark. The only source of light is a small window high on a brick wall, barely wide enough to fit his head through if he could reach it. Moonlight is filtering through the small opening, casting half of the room in shadows. There isn’t much to see, an iron door at one end of the room, similar to the one in their mansion basement, with a small windows that has bars. There’s nothing in the room, except an old, stained mattress that stinks of sweat and urine… and that’s it.

He’s alone, lying in the middle of the room, face down. His jacket is gone and his shirt feels damp with blood, sticking to his back like a second skin. It’s uncomfortably cold, but that sensation pales in comparison to the sheer agony the fucking bullets are causing him. He can feel them working their way out of his body, but it’s slow, so much slower than normal. He’s never been in so much pain after he’d been shot, the bullets must have either been dipped into vervain or they are made of wood. Or both.

Slowly, his memory comes back, the phone call, the dark road, the shots— It was a trap and he’d walked right into it. Whoever is behind it is not only smart enough to not give away their identity, they also know about Alaric and had used him. A tendril of unease worms its way through his chest that has nothing to do with the bullet wounds. What if—

The sound of footsteps coming closer pulls him out of his thoughts. He struggles to get up, doesn’t want to be caught lying there, prone, defenseless on the ground. But the bullets make it next to impossible to move, all he manages to do is to roll onto his side, fighting to ignore his screaming muscles.

The steps come to a stop outside the cell and he turns to squint at the door. There’s some rustling again, then a sharp intake of air, followed by Alaric’s dazed voice.

“What—“

Something clicks, a sound Damon would recognize anywhere; the sound of a safety latch snapping off.

Damon surges to his feet, the bullets in his back forgotten, intent on rushing to the door, on breaking it open, but ‘upright’ is as far as he gets before his body betrays him. He stumbles sideways into the wall as everything around him suddenly turns black. His senses go into overdrive, focus on a heartbeat that’s racing and scared, close and _familiar_ —

— and the gun goes off.

 

ooOOoo

 

Alaric comes to when they drag him out of the car with no regards to his injuries. Someone bumps into his side and his broken ribs flare to life, sending flashes of white, hot agony through his body and dragging a hoarse shout from his throat. He comes up swinging, lashing out at the person closest to him without thinking, desperate to get them away from him. He can’t see a thing, there’s a blindfold covering his eyes, but before he can reach for it he is grabbed again, pulled upright between two people who feel huge and strong compared to him.

Someone growls into his ear. “Do that again and I’ll snap your neck before you know it.”

They start moving and he loses his footing, stumbles between his captors who just drag him along through the darkness.

His head is reeling, the last thing he remembers is Damon collapsing in front of him and shadows racing towards them, moving so fast he could barely track their movements. He’d tried to put up a fight, but a blow to the back of his already aching head had taken him out of the game before he ever got a hit in. He has no idea where he is, or where Damon is for that matter, but whoever is behind this is definitely not human or has at least some sort of support of the bloodsucking kind.

A door is opened somewhere in front of him and the air changes, goes from fresh and cold to _ice_ -cold and moldy. There are stairs, leading down, below the surface, a cellar maybe. He’s dragged down the steps and he wants to fight against it. He’s scared; he can’t see where he is going and he feels like he is going to fall any moment and tumble headfirst into an abyss. But he stays silent, he is having enough difficulties as it is to drag in enough air into his cramped lungs.

When they finally stop walking, it’s a relief.

For a moment he just stands there, breathing shallowly, then someone grabs him by the scruff of his neck and forces him upright, out of his protective slump. He has to fight to keep his balance on legs that have started to shake from exhaustion and cold. The blindfold is snatched off his head and the light of a single light bulb assaults his eyes, causing them to tear up.

“What—“ he starts against his better judgment, but falls silent when there’s a sound right in front of his face.

It takes him a moment to process what he is seeing and then another to realize that the faint ‘click’ he hears is the sound of a safety latch being released. He is too dazed to understand that the gun pointing at his head is a threat—

Until it goes off.

 

ooOOoo

 

He’s dead.

His head hurts.

He’s so fucking _cold_.

He’s dead and his head hurts and he wishes he could just stop shivering already. It’s freezing, moisture is seeping through his jeans where his knees press into the ground. Wet, everything is wet, his head—

His head is split open, bleeding out. Blood, there’s blood everywhere, leaking out of him in a steady flow. He can’t see it, he can’t see anything because it is dark, but it’s there, warm and sticky, dripping into his eyes. He tries to blink it away, but that doesn’t work, even that tiny movement hurts so bad he gives up and just lies there, trying to make sense of the world.

He’s de—he _should_ be dead, he’s had a gun go off _in his face_ and he doesn’t have his ring anymore and how the hell can you even miss a target this close?

He shivers again, groaning when his whole body complains about the movement—and that’s when he hears the voice. It’s low and cautious and kind of familiar, but too muffled for him to understand what it’s saying. He tenses in alarm, tries to lift his head, to sit up, to do anything but lie helpless on the ground, but it’s impossible. The best he can do is turn his head in the direction and blink into the darkness.

A shadow starts moving, gets closer to him and kneels down next to him.

 _Stop,_ he wants to say, _leave me the fuck alone already,_ but what comes out sounds an awful lot like a panicked grunt. He is not okay with that, but unable to change it.

A hand reaches out toward his head and he flinches back instinctively, trying to roll away from it, but, again, his body betrays him and he is forced to remain where he is. The voice sounds again and this close he can make out a words, a name.

“Ric, calm down, it’s me.”

The hand squeezes his neck softly and the shadow leans forward, closer to his face, until he can make out pale skin against a dark background and two familiar eyes looking down at him.

“Damon?” His own voice is nothing but a breathless croak, but he thinks he gets the name out.

“You look like crap,” Damon informs him and Alaric huffs weakly, pulling his lips into a forced smile.

“Yeah, I was shot— _in the head_ …”

Damon leans closer and frowns, studying his head. “It’s still attached… in all its ugly glory.”

Something about his voice is off, but Alaric feels too dizzy to respond to that and then Damon leans away from him. “Can you get up?”

 _No_. “Yeah, help me up…” He sighs, bracing himself for the pain he knows will come.

He isn’t disappointed, as soon as Damon pulls him to his feet his world turns from _spinning_ to _whoa, rollercoaster_ and his side cramps up on him, driving what little air he has left from his lungs. He closes his eyes, doesn’t want to see anymore, to feel anymore. His stomach churns in protest as his head reels, but he can’t make a sound. He doubles over before he is even upright and Damon fastens an arm across his chest, keeping him on his feet. The vampire says something, but Alaric’s hearing is too fuzzy to make it out. They walk slowly into the darkness, Alaric sagging more and more, until Damon stops and sits him down against a cold wall, squatting down in front of him.

For a long time all Alaric is concerned about is getting his lungs to work properly and fight off the black dots that are dancing in his vision. Damon watches him, uncharacteristically silent, his face a blurry spot in the darkness that doesn’t give Alaric any hint as to what might be on his mind. When he trusts himself enough to be able to form actual words, he cocks his head to the side slightly, trying to focus.

“Are you okay?”

Damon jerks slightly and tenses, leaning back as he clears his throat. “I’m not the one who almost had his head blown off.”

Alaric might not be firing on all cylinders at the moment, but he catches the weird tone of Damon’s voice and frowns, holding his breath as he sits up straighter.

“What happened out there, you were… shot?” He remembers that, dimly, he remembers shots in the darkness, Damon collapsing against him, almost knocking him off his feet—

“Damon?”

Damon shifts slightly… and _growls_.

It’s a soft sound, one Alaric has heard quite frequently in the past, but it always had a playful edge to it. Right now, it doesn’t, it’s low and deep and _feral_ and it makes the hair on Alaric’s neck stand on end. It’s when his heart starts to beat faster and he _feels_ Damon’s complete attention crawl over him that he realizes he is in trouble, they both are.

Damon was injured, his body must have healed his wounds by now and that means he needs blood, pure and simple. And Alaric’s head is bleeding, gushing blood like a stuck pig to be exact, right in front of a hungry vampire, like some buffet waiting to be devoured. It’s a miracle that his jugular is still intact right now, Damon is not known to be the most controlled vampire of all times.

Well, _shit_.

Alaric freezes on the spot, breath caught in his throat as he goes through his frighteningly short list of options: He stopped taking vervain a week into that thing they have—a decision he somehow never really questioned and that Damon never commented on—he is carrying no weapons and is in no condition to fight him off—

He’s screwed.


	3. All I need

 

It’s… strange.

It’s different from everything he is used to, everything that’s worked for him for so many years. He has never felt like this before, in control and yet so close to snapping, to letting go, giving in and _fuck the rest of the world_.

He has never done it before, has never _had_ to do it.

He has never held back, he has never tried to keep himself in check, it’s not in his nature, it’s not what he does, who he is. If he wants something, he gets it, if he’s not allowed to take it, he gets it anyway, because that’s how it goes, that’s what his world is like. He _can_ take it, everything, he is strong enough, it’s how he survives, how he was born—what he was created to do. He’s at the top of the fucking food chain and if he is hungry, if he needs blood, he damn well takes it. No second thoughts, no promises to be gentle or considerate—he feeds. He might not kill, not all the time, not anymore, but if it happens, if there is death and bloodshed, well, he doesn’t care, it’s not his problem.

He has never had to hold back, never had to fight against the hunger, against his nature—the _need_ for blood—

He does now.

The smell of blood is heavy in the air, so rich, so _there_ he can taste it on his tongue. It’s everywhere, so strong, so fucking tempting and close, all he has to do is reach out—

He gasps, head spinning as he feels his control slip for just a second. He growls deep in his throat as his senses go into overdrive, threatening to drag him under. Everything, every smell, every sound, every sensation right now is just _that_ little bit too intense, too loud, too _enticing_ to ignore. The blood is calling out to him, sighing his name like an old lover, whispering words into his ear, compelling him to come closer, to let go…

And where he would normally never even stop to think about it, he now forces himself to take a step back from everything, the situation, the smell, the hunger that’s coursing through him, burning through his veins—

He snarls, baring his fangs to the darkness, before he turns, retreating to the other end of the too small cell. He needs to stop this, he needs to put an end to this, if he doesn’t get away, if he can’t control this and put some distance between him and the human—between him and _Ric_ —

Reality isn’t helping at all.

Every time he thinks he has a sliver of self-control, of something solid to lean on—it crumbles under the onslaught of the smell. There is no escape from it, the few steps don’t make a difference, the smell is already there, welcoming him, wrapping around him like a second skin. Sweet, rich, familiar—his _, his_ alone—

He shakes his head vigorously, casting his senses out of the small cell, tries to locate whoever did this to them, to Ric, on what he is going to do to them once he gets the chance, how he won’t allow them to mess with him like that, tries to pick up a scent, a sound to concentrate on. They are going to pay for this, he’s going to hunt them down, one by one or all together, he doesn’t really care—

“Damon?”

Alaric’s croak, a shadow of his usual voice, drifts through the darkness, soft, concerned, _wary_.

It pulls him out of his thoughts and he can’t help but turn around, eyes snapping to him before he can stop himself. He looks at him, taking in every detail, how Alaric is slumped against the wall with his arms draped across his middle, how he keeps moving restlessly, trying to find a comfortable position, how his jaw is clenched tight against the shivers running through him, causing his breath to hitch. He’s looking in Damon’s general direction, but his eyes aren’t focused, he keeps blinking dizzily into the darkness. The right side of his face is covered in blood and it looks like black paint in the dark, as if he is wearing some sort of mask—

He’s all over Alaric in a heartbeat, straddling the other, crowding him against the wall. Alaric gasps out a pained curse when Damon’s knee digs into his injured side in the process, folding into Damon’s chest as his body tries to curl around it, to shield it. His hands start pushing at Damon’s knee, fighting to dislodge it.

“Get off me, it _hurts_ —“ Alaric snarls into Damon’s shoulder, all traces of dizziness  and weakness gone as he squirms against him, trying to get away from the pressure.

It’s a reflex, Alaric moves to the side and Damon’s hand shoots out, closing over Alaric’s throat and forcing his head back against the wall. He’s done it a million times before, watching his victims stare at him, wide-eyed, panicked, begging him to let go, to not hurt them—

Alaric freezes, just like them, and looks at him, but there’s no panic in his eyes, no horror, nothing but a mixture of anger and betrayal lurking at the edges as he gasps for air, one hand coming up to clutch at the one around his throat.

“Damon—“

It would be so easy, a mental nudge, a small shove in the right direction and Alaric wouldn’t be aware of anything anymore it, wouldn’t feel it, wouldn’t fight him, wouldn’t mind. Sooo much easier, no drama, no heartache, no hurt feelings— He’s tempted, he thinks of the way Alaric would just melt against him, all relaxed and pliable, would give in at the slightest touch and with no protest at all—And suddenly there’s another need racing through him, a different kind of hunger clouding his senses. He shivers, eyes fixed on Alaric’s face who looks back at him and frowns, then increases his struggles.

“Damon, _wait_ —“

“I’m hungry…” Damon whispers and closes the distance between them, covering Alaric’s lips with his own.

Alaric makes a choked noise of protest at the back of his throat and brings his hands up, starts pushing against Damon, against his shoulders, but Damon doesn’t pull back. Instead, he deepens the kiss, letting one of his fangs graze over Alaric’s bottom lip as he slowly releases his hold on his throat. Alaric relaxes somewhat and stops pushing at him, but he’s still trying to squirm away from him, brows drawn together into that unhappy frown. Damon lets his hand wander around the back of Alaric’s neck and growls softly when his fingers discover dried blood and a lump the size of a small egg, causing Alaric to wince and hiss into the kiss.

When he finally pulls back, Alaric is panting softly against him, too out of breath to say anything for a moment. Damon takes advantage of it and starts kissing his way down the side of Alaric’s neck, pausing to run his tongue over the fresh blood tracks there.

“I’m hungry,” he whispers against the bloodied skin of Alaric’s throat, because it’s important, he needs to make him understand. “I’m hungry and there’s only you…” As if it isn’t obvious, as if he needs Alaric’s permission—

His breath catches in his throat when he gradually realizes that he _does_ , he wants to hear it. The thought pulls him out of the need-induced heat, allowing him to catch his breath for a second. He wants this, he wants to hear it, he _needs_ to know it’s okay—and that’s such a weird level of _fucked up_ , even for him, that he pauses to shake his head slightly, chuckling softly against the warm skin.

“I know, Damon, I know that, okay?”

Alaric is breathless above him, and he’s pushing against him, although it seems as if he can’t make up his mind whether he wants to push him away or pull him closer. He seems to be determined to get some point across and Damon forces himself to listen, if only for a moment, forces the need back as he nips his way down Alaric’s throat.

Alaric swallows heavily and his voice comes out strained. “You’re our only shot at getting out of here, all right? You have to heal—you have to be strong enough, got it?”

“Got it,” Damon mumbles softly and stills when Alaric’s fists tighten in his collar, pulling him closer for a moment.

“Just… try to _not_ kill me with this tonight… okay?” He sounds like he’s joking, but his heartbeat gives him away, it’s racing, he’s nervous, scared, but willing to trust him.

Damon pulls back and lets go of Alaric’s hair, watching as the other leans back against the wall and looks at him searchingly for a moment, before he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, a small, nervous smile playing at the corner of his lips.

“Okay, _Țepeș_ , bite me…”

Something clicks into place, something that wasn’t there before but is, now, something he needs to have a look at _later_ —

Damon tenses, eyes zeroing in on the part of Alaric’s throat where neck meets shoulder and his lips peel back, releasing his fangs—

He almost jumps out of his skin at the low voice coming from behind him.

“I am sorry to intrude, gentlemen, but I believe you might be interested in… a peace offering.”

 


	4. One step closer

It feels like he is losing his grip on reality.

Damon is there, close, a solid presence that keeps him grounded, but at the same time the vampire isn’t making much sense, he’s talking, asking him to trust him and… something else that Alaric just can’t seem to grasp right now. He knows something has changed between them, something has been set in motion and he isn’t prepared to face it, it has no right being there, shouldn’t be real enough to be able to distract him—

But before he can figure out what exactly he is getting himself into, there’s a voice that’s not Damon’s and it’s saying… _something_ , but he doesn’t listen, is too focused on the man so close to him—

And then Damon is gone, moving too fast for his dizzy brain to track his movements. Alaric frowns and blinks several times, scanning the darkness in front of him until he sees a familiar figure standing in the middle of the room, staring at the open door.

It takes him a moment to realize there is someone there, leaning casually against the wall. He’s seen that someone before, it’s the nice hair dude, whatsisname… _Elijah?_ The Original they had put their trust in, the brother of the son of the bitch who killed Jenna. His stomach twists sickeningly as a wave of remembered rage-anger-helplessness— _HATE_ rolls over him, stealing his breath until it becomes too loud for his aching head. He settles for pulling his brows into a displeased frown and that’s as far as he gets before the flash of adrenaline is gone as quickly as it appeared and he’s left feeling drained, too tired, almost, to keep his eyes open.

He can’t sleep now, there’s something that requires his attention, something important…

Damon and Elijah are looking at each other, Alaric can’t see Damon’s face from where he is sitting, but the vampire is tense, ready to move.

Elijah is wearing his trademark _I couldn’t care less about you_ expression, one brow raised, the rest of his features impassive, yet attentive.

“… to believe that you’re here to save our asses?” Damon is growling, sounding incredulous.

Elijah’s gaze wanders from him to Alaric who tenses under the sudden scrutiny, feeling his hackles come up at the calculating look he receives.

“Strictly speaking, I am here for Mr. Saltzman. Saving _your_ ass should be considered a lucky coincidence on your behalf, not part of my original plan.”

“What do you want with him?” Damon’s voice is strained and belatedly Alaric realizes that ‘him’, in this context, actually means _him_ -him. He frowns and sits up straighter, eyeing the Original wearily. He doesn’t like it, not tonight, no hidden vampire agendas for him, not with his head about to fall off his shoulders—

“It’s not so much him as a person that I am interested in, as in what’s in his head that’s of importance to me.”

Pain, Alaric thinks dizzily, all there is, in his head, is pain. He’s not very keen on keeping it.

Before him, Damon shifts. “What’s in his head?”

Elijah shifts his attention to Damon and pauses, for a moment it seems as if he is debating what exactly to tell them, how much they need to know. “When Klaus possessed him, Alaric was exposed to my brother’s thoughts and plans—his secrets, information that may be crucial in finding him, information I need.”

“I don’t remember anything about his plans,” Alaric hears himself say and is surprised at how weak and scratchy his voice sounds. Damon turns to look at him, but Alaric can’t see his face against the light coming from behind him.

“My brother compelled you to forget everything, but it’s there. I am curious, do you have… nightmares? Flashbacks that seem too real? Are you hearing voices that aren’t there?”

Alaric tenses and his heart skips a beat, then starts racing all of a sudden, setting up a painful, panicked rhythm in his chest. He swallows heavily, unable to find his voice to answer.

Elijah studies him, then nods to himself. “It _is_ there and I have the means to get it out and use it.”

“How?” Alaric can’t help the tremor in his voice, the idea of having to find out whatever sick plans and ideas that fucked up hybrid left _in his head_ scares the crap out of him. Not to mention the fact that he will apparently be having yet another Original snooping around his head without his permission.

“Let’s just say that I can lift his compulsion and set the memories free. As for how _exactly_ I’m going to do that, Ric, you should take my word for it that I won’t damage you… permanently. It will certainly hurt less than the many hangovers you’ve induced while trying to drown your memories.”

“Take your word for it?” Damon huffs drily. “If you had kept your word my brother wouldn’t be on a killing spree with your psychotic half-breed right now.”

“And you would be dead.”

There’s a pause in which nobody moves and then Elijah shifts, a subtle movement— and the atmosphere in the small room _changes_. Even though his expression remains the same, the very air around the older vampire seems to vibrate with a sudden tension and for just a second, for the blink of an eye Alaric feels a different presence beneath the calm appearance, some powerful, lethal being, barely kept in check— _ancient_ —

—and then it’s gone. It’s a warning, an _order_ to back off, and even Damon seems to catch the not so hidden meaning and takes a step back, away from Elijah.

The Original seems as relaxed as always. “I am very aware of my involvement in this… most unfortunate situation, but I’m afraid you will have to take my word for it, however compromised it might be.”

“Why do you even need to know about his plans? Aren’t you two working together toward some… higher goal? Isn’t that why you saved him?” Alaric has no idea what possesses him to ask that question when it’s more than obvious that Elijah doesn’t want to talk about the ritual and its consequences. He half expects to receive a warning glare—or something more… painful, but the vampire simply looks at him, face as impassive as ever.

“Klaus took advantage of a personal weak spot… a mistake I will not allow to be repeated.”

“So he betrayed you? Can’t imagine how much that would _suck_ …”

Damon seems to be having a death wish, Alaric flinches at the sarcasm that’s all but dripping from his voice—but, again, Elijah surprises him by merely arching an eyebrow at the younger vampire and remaining disturbingly calm.

Alaric shifts slightly, too aware of the tense atmosphere. “If you wanted our help, why didn’t you just ask? Why this setup?”

Elijah steps away from the wall and takes a look around the small cell. “This? This isn’t my doing, I am merely here to prevent your untimely demise.”

“Then who—“ Damon starts, but Elijah interrupts him.

“My brother. He’s become aware of you looking for him and this is meant to be a warning to stop. He can’t harm you as part of the deal between him and your brother, but Alaric’s death would have served as a clear message to make you behave. And he would have made sure that the information in his head would be… inaccessible.”

“Because I would be dead…” Alaric feels dizzy, but this time it has nothing to do with his head injury.

“As far as my brother is concerned, you are. At least that’s what the gentlemen who brought you here are compelled to report to him. I suggest that you keep a low profile for the following weeks until the situation is dealt with.”

“Keep a low profile? You want me to disappear… for _weeks_?”

“You do not seem to understand the severity of the situation, Klaus cannot, under any circumstances, know that you are still alive. Your laying low is not a request, it is a requirement.” Elijah watches him for a moment, then shrugs, matter-of-fact. “With your connections to the local authorities I am sure you can arrange for a missing persons report in the newspapers that should keep Klaus off your track.”

Alaric can’t help it, he stares at the Original, stunned speechless. He can’t wrap his mind around how casually his fate is decided by someone who has no right to do anything like that. When exactly did he stop being a _person_?

“I can’t just… put everything on hold, I have a job, I have a _life_ —“

“Why don’t you just pluck the information you need from his mind right now and save all of us a lot of trouble?” Damon’s tone is casual, almost cold, and Alaric wants to punch him for it, this, all of this is going to far—

“Because it is not as simple as lifting a compulsion made by a vampire of your limited powers, this… procedure requires time and a special preparation.”

Alaric snaps, just like that. It’s probably the concussion making him talk his mind, it’s definitely a very, very bad idea, but he doesn’t care, not anymore, he’s had _enough_.

“Forget it, I won’t do it, I’m not some _puppet_ , you can’t just jerk the strings and make me dance, I can’t—“

He doesn’t get any further than that, one moment he’s on the ground, glaring up at Elijah standing in the doorway, the next he’s slammed into the wall behind him with so much force his bones reverberate with the impact. An ice-cold hand wraps around his throat, crushing his windpipe and immediately cutting off his words, keeping him pinned against the stone. His feet don’t touch the ground, there’s no way to relieve the strain on his neck and he barely has the strength to lift his hands to tug weakly at the arm that’s holding him.

Elijah is standing before him, looking up at him with dark eyes, his low voice no more than a whisper over the rushing in Alaric’s ears. “Do not believe for a second that I am not aware of the fact you’re a mere _human_ standing in the way of my plan, Alaric. If I have _any_ reason to suspect that you don’t do what is required of you, you will not appreciate the consequences.”

Alaric feels his vision dim and wants to panic, wants to fight back, but the pressure on his throat puts an end to everything, draining every ounce of strength he might have had left out of him. Elijah seems completely indifferent to his almost non-existent struggles and turns his head to look at Damon who’s standing a few feet away, fists clenched at his sides as he _glares_ at the older vampire—but doesn’t move.

“As for you, Damon, know this: I do not have to let you out of this cell for my plan to work, I can very well leave you here until this is over…”

Alaric is having more and more difficulties staying conscious, his lungs are burning with lack of oxygen, his head is pounding so hard he sees flashes of colors streak across his vision with every heartbeat and his hearing is starting to fail. Despite his earlier claim that Elijah needs him for something, the Original seems intent on choking him to death and he’s hurting so damned much it actually starts to seem like a good idea to just give up…

He dimly hears Elijah say something to him and then he’s falling…


	5. Human

Alaric gives a breathless gasp and bucks weakly against the wall, before his eyes roll back into his head and he goes limp, arms falling away from the hand at his throat. Damon can’t help it, he tenses, barely holding back a growl and taking a step forward, but the look on Elijah’s face makes him stop in his tracks. He glares at the Original.

Elijah studies the quiet human he’s still holding up, then turns slightly to look at Damon.

“Make sure his head remains intact.”

With that, he is gone before Alaric’s limp body hits the floor, where it lands in a boneless heap.

Damon whirls to look at the door, half expecting to see it fall shut, but it stays open, the light of the single bulb casting shadows on the ground. He bites back the insult that wants to slip free, too aware of the fact that Elijah may still be close enough to hear him, and goes over to Alaric, running his fingers over the pale skin of his neck. He feels a pulse, sluggish and disturbingly weak, but then Alaric draws a shallow breath and then another, starting to cough a few times. He remains unconscious, though, and Damon is actually grateful for that.

“You can thank me later,” he grunts into the darkness when Alaric falls silent and pulls him upright, leaning him against the wall.

Damon straightens, taking a couple of deep breaths, fighting to ignore the smell, focusing his attention on his goal: getting out of there without tearing into Alaric’s throat for a snack. It’s hard; he feels the familiar throb of the veins around his eyes, can’t stop his fangs from descending—and then he looks down at Alaric.

“You owe me.”

He pulls him up and across his shoulders and leaves the cell as fast as he can, using his speed to get out and into the dark night. The fresh air helps a little, allowing him to gain some sort of control. He looks around, trying to orient himself—and freezes, staring at the trees a couple of feet away. Alaric’s car is standing there in the bushes, abandoned, the driver’s door open. Damon blinks, believes it to be a hallucination at first, but then walks over, a small grin pulling at his lips when he sees the keys in the ignition.

Alaric rouses briefly a couple of times during the drive, staring blankly at him before he passes out again. The cursed wound on his temple finally stops bleeding, but the scent is still heavy on the air, driving Damon mad with hunger. He has to focus his entire concentration on keeping the car on the road, and twice he almost loses it. At some point he starts shaking and his hands grip the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turn white. When they finally arrive at the boarding house, the sun is starting to crawl up the horizon. Damon is out of the car before he knows it, flashing through the main door and into the basement. The last thing he is aware of before everything goes red is the sound of the top of the freezer crashing against the wall.

He goes through a third of his admittedly small blood stash before the burning hunger lessens and he becomes aware of his surroundings again. The shaking has stopped, the pain in his back is gone—and he _stinks_. He’s covered in blood, his own, Alaric’s, his shirt is shredded—and maybe he should have a look at the half-dead history teacher he’s left behind in the car.

Alaric surprises him; not only is he awake and conscious, he’s also moving, walking slowly into the hallway. He’s hanging on to the wall for support and his squinted eyes speak of a major headache and a severe difficulty with focusing, but he’s upright and functioning—at least on a very basic level.

Alaric proves him right with the first words that come out of his mouth. “I need a drink.”

They both wince at the croak. Alaric’s voice is completely shot to hell, nothing getting out but a hoarse, painful sounding rasp. Oh, the joys of being choked…

“You— _we_ need a _shower_.”

Alaric frowns, looking down at his bloody and torn clothes. “Whatever…”

He turns to the stairs and begins to climb them slowly. Damon watches him for a moment.

“I could help you with that.”

Alaric pauses on the first flight of the stairs. “You’re not carrying me, Damon.” He sounds as if he’d rather say the opposite.

Damon walks up to him, regarding him with a side-glance. “I wasn’t talking about the stairs.”

Alaric’s jaw clenches and for two, three steps he walks almost normally. “I know.”

It’s one of those things that have become a rule: Alaric won’t drink his blood, not for healing purposes, not for fun, not even in a fight. He’s made Damon promise not to give him anything and he agreed, even if they both know he won’t keep that promise if it ever gets serious.

He doesn’t see the point; it’s stupid, actually, why not save Alaric the pain and get him back on his feet in a matter of seconds? It’s never been an issue before, ever since he gave the ring back to John Gilbert, Alaric has never been hurt badly enough to have trouble walking in a straight line and so that promise has been surprisingly easy to keep.

Until now.

It’s… _unsettling_. It’s only a couple of broken bones and a concussion, Alaric is not going to die from it, but still— for some reason Damon is suddenly too aware of how disturbingly human— _vulnerable_ — he is.

Whatever.

Damon flashes up the stairs to the top, looking down at Alaric’s painful progress for a second, then walks into the bedroom, taking off his clothes and chucking them into a corner.

The hot water is heaven. He gets so lost in the sensation of warmth rolling through his muscles it takes him a very long time to realize that Alaric isn’t joining him in the fun. He frowns, concentrating on the bedroom for a moment to find a heartbeat close by. Damon finishes the shower and snatches a towel, drying himself as he walks back into the room.

Alaric is sitting on the bed, shoes off, jacket lying abandoned near the foot. He’s slumped forward, a lost look in his eyes as if he forgot what he was doing in the middle of doing it and has been wondering about it ever since. He jerks upright when Damon steps into his line of sight.

“You’re getting blood on my bed, old, _smelly_ blood, not the good kind.”

Alaric needs a moment to comprehend that and sways to his feet. “Shirt’s too tight, can’t get it off.”

Damon takes a look at the bloody shirt and rips it open at the back, grinning at Alaric’s attempt to glare at him. “What, it’s ruined anyway.” Then, as an afterthought and only because Alaric looks so fucking weak standing slumped like that, he asks, “Need help with the rest?”

Alaric shakes his head. “I’m fine.”

 _Back off_ and _leave me alone_ is what his body is all but screaming at him—and Damon lets him go. Whatever it is, he’ll get over it.

  


*** *** ***

It’s three days later and Damon is _this_ close to taking a swing at Alaric in frustration.

He’s been patient, he’s been considerate, and he might even go so far as calling himself helpful and understanding.

In other words, he’s not exactly been himself.

Three days of him all but _nursing_ Alaric back to health, getting him stuff from downstairs when his side cramps up on him, letting him sleep for most of the day so Humpty Dumpty has enough time to put himself back together again, leaving him all to himself when Alaric insists that “I really don’t want to talk about it, Damon.”

He does what he can to keep his distance and let him work it out. He doesn’t ask, he doesn’t try to talk to him. That’s not how they work, that’s not how Alaric deals with things. If he’s learned one thing about the man, it’s that he will, eventually, come around and bug him with stuff in his own time. And be an ass in the meantime.

And Damon is fine with that; he wouldn’t have it any other way.

But then there are the nightmares. And they are bad.

Alaric probably hopes Damon doesn’t notice them, but he would have to be deaf, blind _and_ stupid not to. Alaric doesn’t cry out, he doesn’t moan in his sleep, he doesn’t even thrash around and wake himself up, but there’s his heartbeat, skyrocketing from one moment to the other until it’s so fast Alaric starts _panting_ to keep up with it. When Damon turns around Alaric is staring at him, pupils blown wide in the darkness, full of something that never stays long enough for Damon to put a name to it.

Alaric never goes back to sleep for the rest of the night. He gets up, shuffles around the room and goes downstairs, wandering through the library and the other rooms restlessly. He doesn’t talk about it, never talks about anything anymore, he tells Damon to leave it alone. Damon expects to find him passed out from too much alcohol in the morning, but instead he’s always sober, tired as hell and still walking, looking lost and miserable and very freaked out.

It’s not that he doesn’t understand it, he does: Alaric is running on empty and too much emotion and way too little alcohol and that’s a very bad combination for him. Damon has never seen him like this before. Granted, he has no idea how exactly Alaric dealt with the whole Isobel affair before they somehow decided they made a great team and started to hang out together. He’s always figured it was probably pretty much the same as he always did: lots of alcohol, sleeping in as much as he could and giving Stefan a run for his money when it comes to brooding.

Somehow Alaric has always found a way to get better, to get back to normal, but this, whatever this is, seems to be too much for him.

And it has gone on long enough.

 


	6. Almost Lover

He has it all planned out: he’s going to wait for nightfall, wait for Alaric to fall asleep and then have another nightmare. He’s going to trap him then, roll on top of him, wake him up, immobilize him, and then force him to talk. Maybe even compel him if he doesn’t cooperate.

Piece of cake, really, as perfect as a plan gets.

The problem is, Alaric beats him to it.

It’s not even dark outside when Damon suddenly becomes aware of a presence behind him. He’s in the library, near the fireplace and when he looks over his shoulder he finds Alaric standing in the doorway, watching him. It’s the first time in days the other man looks awake and is dressed in clothes instead of his sweatpants and some T-shirt.

“Hey.”

His voice is back, mostly. Still scratchy from time to time, maybe even sexy, if the bruises around his throat wouldn’t stand out like that against his too pale skin and Damon wouldn’t see Elijah’s hand squeezing— _choking_  Alaric every time Damon looks at him—

Alaric takes a step into the room and Damon shakes off the memory, turning around to grin at him.

“The sun is still up and you’re awake… I had almost forgotten that it was supposed to be  _me_  who’s all tired and wrinkled during the day.”

Alaric surprises him with a small grin instead of the ever-present frown, but it’s gone a moment later, leaving behind a guarded expression.

“I need to talk to you.”

Something in his voice, in his eyes, sends a sliver of apprehension down Damon’s spine.

“You still remember how to do that?” It comes out sounding a lot more irritable than he had intended, but if Alaric notices, he doesn’t show it.

Alaric slowly walks into the room, stopping behind the couch. He looks over at Damon for a moment, and then drops his gaze, studying the back of the couch.

“I… uhm…” Alaric takes a deep breath and sighs, then looks up again. “I’ve decided to leave town until this… until Elijah gets this ritual… or whatever it is—until it’s over.”

There’s a pause and Damon has to rerun that sentence in his head to catch the meaning. “You’re leaving?”

“I can’t stay here for—I don’t know how long this is going to take and I can’t just stay inside all the time and—I’m going stir-crazy in here.” Alaric gestures vaguely at the room and shifts his weight slightly, looking uncomfortable.

“Where are you going?”

Alaric shrugs, shifts again. “I don’t know, I—someplace where I don’t—where I can get out and do… something. Some town where nobody knows me.” He pauses for a second and runs his hand over the back of the couch. “I need to go somewhere where I won’t put anyone in danger just because they know me. If someone sees me here and Elijah finds out—someone’s going to get hurt because of me… and I can’t take that chance.”

“What if someone comes after you?”

“Who would come after me?”

“Klaus? What if he finds you?”

Alaric frowns. “That’s the whole point of me leaving, so that he won’t find out I’m not missing.”

Damon shakes his head. “I don’t like it.” It’s a stupid plan—it’s not even a plan, it’s just stupid.

“I don’t have a choice. I can’t stay here, Damon. I don’t belong here.” Alaric sighs, running a hand over his face. He suddenly looks very tired—and lost. “This town… it feels like it’s eating me alive, you know? I can’t—I just—it’s enough, all this, vampires and—and Originals—I can’t do this anymore.”

Damon’s heart clenches painfully; this conversation is taking a turn he is not okay with. Alaric can’t be meaning to— “What do you mean?”

Alaric is silent for a long time, studying him, some battle taking place in his head that Damon sees reflected in his eyes—and he  _knows_ , suddenly he knows what Alaric is going to say before he opens his mouth.

“It means that if— _as soon as_ —Elijah is done and gets that information out of my head, I don’t know if I’m coming back.”

No.

“You’re kidding.” He has to be, he can’t be serious about this.

Alaric is still watching him closely, shaking his head slowly. “No, Damon, I’m not, I’m done with this town. I don’t belong here, not anymore.”

“What about Elena and Jeremy?”

Alaric flinches at their names and looks guilty for a moment, as if it hurts to think about them, but then he blinks and it’s gone, replaced by a tired grimace and a slight shrug. “They don’t need me, Damon. They’re better off without me. Right now they can’t know I’m around and—they’re going to find a way to handle this. They’ll figure something out.”

This is getting more and more out of hand; this isn’t right, Damon has to stop him, make him think, Alaric can’t just leave—

“What about Jenna? You said you owed her.”

It’s a low blow and Alaric takes a step back, his eyes reflecting so much pain and misery for a second that Damon almost feels sorry for bringing her up. But, again, Alaric clamps down on it, on everything, and his eyes grow hard, even though his voice cracks slightly. “Jenna is dead, she’s—she’s gone— and me staying or not won’t make a difference. It won’t bring her back. And with whatever Klaus put in my head, I think she’d want me to stay away from them.”

Damon remembers then, remembers Elijah asking Alaric about how whatever Klaus had done to him was affecting him, things no one could see or hear but him—and he frowns. Something about the whole situation doesn’t add up, doesn’t make sense.

“What’s in your head? What’s with the nightmares and the voices? What’s that all about?”

It’s like someone flips a switch, Alaric actually looks startled for a second— and then his face goes blank, just like that, any emotion his face might have held is gone. And all the warning bells at the back of Damon’s mind shrill to life.

“That’s none of your business, Damon.” Alaric’s voice is cold, his message crystal clear.  _Back off._

Too bad that Damon’s never cared too much about warnings.

“That’s not an answer.”

He moves, knocking Alaric backwards and into the nearest wall, trapping him against it with his body. Alaric hisses in pain when his ribs are rattled with the impact and moves to shove him back, but Damon doesn’t budge, placing his hands on the wall on both sides of Alaric’s head, leaning in.

“I’ve played nice long enough, now. Start.  _Talking_.”

Alaric doesn’t back down, not one inch, he stares right back at him, eyes livid, holding his glare easily. He could get away from him any time, all he has to do is slide out of his arms. Damon’s not holding him down physically, not yet, but Alaric doesn’t move, he remains standing pressed against the wall.

“Get off me, Damon.”

“No.”

Damon leans closer still, eyes never leaving Alaric’s face, studying him closely, gazing into his eyes. “Klaus is in your head, huh? He’s in your dreams, isn’t he?” This close he sees Alaric’s eyes widen fractionally, feels his body tense against him. “What does he do to you?”

“Let me go.“ Alaric’s voice doesn’t waver, but there’s a shiver in his arms that catches Damon’s attention.

“No.”

“Damon—“

“ ** _Relax_** , Ric.”

Just one word, and Alaric settles against him, tension fleeing from his body so fast his knees buckle and he almost goes down. Damon’s body pressing against him the only thing that’s keeping him upright. He doesn’t say a word, but the hurt flashing across his face doesn’t need any verbal exclamation. Damon wants to ignore it, wants to put it aside to deal with the situation at hand—but he hesitates… and suddenly all he can think about is how much he hates having that look directed at him.

What the  _hell_ —

“Damon, please, don’t do this...”

This is wrong, this is all so wrong, Alaric doesn’t sound like this, he doesn’t go quiet and desperate—he doesn’t  _beg_. Alaric  _yells_  at him if he’s pissed at him and compelling him should make him that, should make him angry and furious, but not—not  _this_ , he can’t suddenly go all disappointed—it just doesn’t work like that. Damon wants him annoyed, he needs him  _mad_  at him for doing that, for overpowering him like this, using his powers on him, he can deal with that, he can push it aside and ignore it and still do what he has to to get his answers, but this—

“Damon, look, I’ll talk, but—don’t do this to me, not  _you_ …”

It’s the tone that does it, that pulls him back, makes him study Alaric’s face, trying to read him, to make sense of the crestfallen expression, the dejected look in the other man’s eyes.

“Then talk, Ric…” he hears himself say and it’s so fucking  _hard_  to keep his own expression blank, to make it seem like he doesn’t really care about what is happening, when… when he  _does_.

There’s a long pause and Alaric doesn’t look at him, looks anywhere but at him and Damon thinks he won’t ever get a single word out, but then he’s talking, voice low and hollow and  _not his_.

“I don’t remember what the dreams are about, I wake up, I know they are there and I’m scared—and that’s it. It’s… my mind is just… blank, there’s nothing there.”

And if nothing makes sense right now, this does. “He’s compelled you.”

“I know, he’s told me to forget—and I do, every night, whatever there is—or was—it’s gone.”

“And the walking around all night?”

Alaric sighs, a tired sound. “I… when I wake up… I can’t calm down, I can’t stand still—I have to move, I know I’m not safe…”

Damon frowns, pulls back a little, surprised. “Not safe? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know, it’s just a feeling…”

And damn if everything doesn’t make a lot of sense all of a sudden. “That’s why you think you have to leave, he’s messing with your head, he’s making you think you’re not safe here.”

“No, it’s not that, it’s…” Alaric breaks off, sighing against Damon’s shoulder. “Damon, let me go, please, I can’t talk about this like… that…”

For a second Damon has no idea what he means with this, but then he remembers the compulsion, realizes Alaric is still slumped against the wall, barely moving, forced into a relaxed posture when his heart is doing its best to beat its way out of his chest. Damon pulls back, making sure to keep him upright when he ends the effect, steadying Alaric when he sags against him and needs a moment to find his balance. Once he is back on his feet, Alaric takes a few steps away from him, but the angry glare Damon expects doesn’t come, all Alaric does is roll his shoulders slightly and run a somewhat shaky hand through his hair.

“What is it then?”

“It’s everything, every little thing that happened since I came here. I want revenge for my dead wife and then she isn’t dead and she uses me and sells me— _my body_  to this vampire and my girlfriend dies and now I have something in my head that might help kill Klaus but I can’t live my life anymore because I’m supposed to be  _dead_  and you—“ Alaric freezes, eyes snapping up to meet his, widening.

“And me?” Damon asks, taken aback by the panicked look on his face.

“Nothing, it’s… it’s nothing.”

“Ric—“

Alaric holds up a hand, interrupting him. “Look, Damon… I… I trust you, okay? I trust you… and that… and that scares the crap out of me because I should have every reason  _not_  to and I should be taking vervain every morning and sleep with a fucking stake under my pillow and—but I don’t and it scares me, more than anything I’ve been through and—this isn’t me and I need to find out who I am—what’s left of me and I can’t do that here, with you and the town and the people—I can’t.”

It’s a lot to take in and Damon isn’t even sure he gets all of it, all he keeps hearing, over and over again, is that Alaric is  _leaving_ —and he has no fucking idea what to think about that. All he knows, all he can think of, right now, is that if he doesn’t do something, doesn’t say something—Alaric will be gone.

“I need to go.”

He doesn’t turn to watch him leave, doesn’t want to see the door close behind him, couldn’t stand to see his shadow disappear under the door—but he hears it, he listens to it, hears every single step that takes him away from the house, every single heartbeat that disappears in the distance.

Every word he never says to make him stay.

*** *** ***

 _Goodbye, my almost lover_   
_Goodbye, my hopeless dream_   
_I'm trying not to think about you_   
_Can't you just let me be?_   
_So long, my luckless romance_   
_My back is turned on you_   
_Should have known you'd bring me heartache_   
_Almost lovers always do_

 **Almost Lover** , A Fine Frenzy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Yes, I know. I can't let it end here, right? It's not fair and I have to be kidding... But it ends here, it was always supposed to end like this. I started planning this story when I started watching the show and just couldn't make sense of Alaric and his relationship with Damon. I wanted to get into his head and try to find out just why he's friends with him. It wasn't supposed to become slash, but the boys had other ideas, obviously.
> 
> But, I am already working on a sequel, there's going to be more.


End file.
